Moringa Leaf (A Novel)

By Greta Shelling

During the late 1990s’ Asian financial crisis and foreign bribes of US officials, an American computer engineer tries to win the admiration of a lovely Indonesian graduate student by getting rich. Will he succeed? Cultural and inter-religious exchange frame this tale of romance and intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664256453

Greta Shelling

Greta Shelling is a marriage counselor and the co-author of IN LOVE BUT WORLDS APART, a handbook for couples whose partners hail from two or more different cultures. She and her husband have personally known and hosted many students, scholars, and immigrants from all over the world.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Three years later, in early September of 1997, Ani Sunatu woke up shivering in a semi dark room. For a moment, she could not remember where she was or why. She sat up, rubbed her almond-shaped eyes, and looked around. The wall was white without blemish—like that of a hospital room. A desk, an empty bookshelf, a chest of drawers, another bed, and next to hers, two large suitcases jolted her memory. She was finally at Newton University outside Baltimore, Maryland, the United States of America!

Ani recollected leaving Jakarta on Sunday at 10:30 p.m., changing planes twice, and reaching Dulles Airport near Washington, D.C. twenty-seven hours later. Because she had gained a day due to the time zone change, her arrival time was Monday at 1:30 a.m. A taxi had taken her to the entrance gate of Newton University in Maryland two hours later, where a muscular African-American security guard greeted her warmly. After driving her to her dormitory in his golf cart and carrying her two enormous suitcases and a shoulder bag up three flights of stairs, he had chuckled and said, I don’t usually do this, you know. But you’re the first student who’s arrived. All the others won’t be coming until Tuesday. Just don’t tell anybody I helped you, or else I’ll get fired! When Ani had reached into her purse to give him a few dollars for tip, he waved her off. Oh no, miss! I don’t want nothin’, he said and left. She had locked the door to her room, dropped fully dressed onto her bed, and instantly fallen asleep.

Reddish sunlight filtered into the room around the edges of the window blinds when she got up to use the bathroom. Her watch said 6:30, but she did not know whether it was morning or evening. She would know soon enough, she decided. She fished for a fresh set of clothing and her toiletries, went to the bathroom, and took a shower. The sun rays between the shade and the window frame had become brighter. She concluded it must still be Monday morning. Much too early to get up, she thought, but partly because of excitement, and partly because she had slept long hours on the flight, she felt wide awake.

Wishing for more daylight in the room, she tried to pull up the shades, but she did not know how to. In desperation, she climbed on a chair, carefully removed the shade from the hooks, rolled it up halfway by hand, and hung it up again. She peeked outside. An empty parking lot below, a three-story building across the way, and a barren, carpet-like lawn on either side of the building met her eyes. A pair of small brown birds flew across the window, and a grayish creature with a bushy tail, which she later learned to be a squirrel, scurried across the empty parking lot below. She retreated from the window, half wondering if she were having a nightmare. The eerie quiet in the dorm did not help. No footsteps, no shouts, and no voices in the hallway. No people anywhere. Where were they all? Then she remembered what the security guard had said when she arrived. You’re the first student who’s arrived, he had said. The others are probably not coming until Tuesday.

Ani’s growling stomach and dry mouth reminded her that she had not eaten since noon the day before. She had been sleeping and therefore missed the last meal during the flight to Washington. The campus cafeteria was closed, the security guard had told her, but she could take the bus to the nearest shopping center to get food. But which bus, and in which direction? She rummaged through a folder of papers sent to her by the admissions office of the university. There! A timetable of bus runs between the campus and a nearby store. The bus would come every hour from 8:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. during the week, but not on Sundays or holidays.

She put on her denim jacket, assuming it was even colder outside than inside. After all, wasn’t this September in the northern USA? As soon as she opened the front door of the building, she realized her mistake. It was almost as hot and humid out there as in Bandung!

Not wanting to miss the bus, she stuffed her jacket into her backpack, rolled up her sleeves, and hurried out through the open campus gate. The kind guard was not there anymore. She looked both ways and found a sign that said BUS STOP to the left.

She stood waiting for at least an hour and a half. The soles of her feet burned badly inside the Nikes, and her shirt was soaking in sweat. She wanted to sit down on the ground, but ants were crawling underneath her—the kind that might bite, she thought. Shifting her feet apart for stabilization, she bent her body forward and backward to relieve her lower back. Why did the bus not come, she wondered? "Maybe I will starve in the great, prosperous United States of America," she muttered as she turned her drenched, weary body and headed back to her room.

A water fountain in the hallway caught her eye. It took her a while to figure out how to get water from it. Splash. Gulp. She spat out the cold water, which not only smelled like the sulfur in her father’s medicine cabinet but also tasted like the stuff her family’s servant used for cleaning. Pinching her nostrils together, she took another swallow. And another. The cold air from the vent blowing on her sweat-drenched T-shirt made her shiver as she stumbled back to her room. She grabbed a towel and a fresh change of clothing and retook a long, warm shower.

Once back in her room, Ani flopped onto her bed. Something sharp pressed against her chest. The culprit? A thumb-length golden miniature keris (or dagger) threaded onto her gold necklace. This miniature replica represented her grandfather’s meter-long keris, a family heirloom that hung in her parents’ bedroom. The top of its distinctive handle was shaped into a frowning face with its tongue sticking out. Some say it has special powers that will bring you success, her father had told her when he had given her this mini replica as a farewell present. "But I say it has no powers of its own. Its powers depend on what you do with your life. You are the one responsible."

Ani gently stroked and kissed the keris pendant. Instead of starving in America, she would keep looking for a solution until she found one somehow, somewhere. This notion felt like it conflicted with her Muslim belief that Allah ultimately decided and guided everything and that she did not have to try so hard to carve out her future. For now, she would accept her uncle’s challenge. And just in case nothing she chose worked out, Allah would have to win.

The thought reminded her that it was time for her mid-morning prayer. She got up, prostrated herself before the window facing east, and began to recite a prayer to Allah. Uncle Lee Salim came to mind while she prayed. Had he not handed her a business card of a friend in Maryland just before she left? If you have a question or a problem, call this woman, he had said. She is a volunteer for the university’s international student office. I met her twenty-five years ago, and I still get Christmas cards from her once a year. She has a big heart.

Ani remembered passing by a public telephone in the hall. Trembling, she rummaged through her purse in search of the woman’s business card. She found it and ran out to the hall phone, but a sign said she needed to insert seventy-five cents. She galloped back to her room and grabbed her wallet. Fortunately, it contained a few quarters that she had acquired when she exchanged her Indonesian rupiahs at the airport.

Hello, the recording of a woman’s voice said on the telephone. We’re sorry we’re not able to answer the phone. But if this is an extremely urgent matter, please leave a message after the beep. This is an urgent matter, Ani told herself. But she didn’t know what the word beep meant, nor how to leave a message. She hung up. Just as she began to return to her room, the wall telephone rang. She picked it up. Hello? she said timidly.

Did someone just call me from that number a few seconds ago? a warm, middle-aged female voice asked.

Yes, I did, Ani replied timidly. Are you Mrs. Outhouse?

A soft chuckle preceded the woman’s reply. Yes, but I think you mean Osterhouse. But you can call me Grace. And you are—?

I am Ani Su-Li Sunatu, and I am a new student at Newton University. My uncle, Lee Salim, gave me your telephone number. He said he met you when he was a student here twenty-five years ago.

Oh, yes! Salim! Of course. From Indonesia, right?

Yes.

Oh my! You’re stranded on that godforsaken campus on a holiday weekend, aren’t you? And I bet you are all alone, am I right? And oh my goodness, no buses, no food! You must be famished.

Ani did not understand the word famished. But, sensing the woman’s empathy, she merely replied with a sniffle.

How do you want me to call you? Ann? Or Sue?

My name is pronounced Ah-nee.

Can you tell me which dorm building you’re in, Ani?

One minute, I will look at my papers.

Never mind, honey, Mrs. Osterhouse said kindly, using two words that Ani could not remember the meaning of. In about twenty minutes, follow the road away from all the other buildings until you come to a large gate. It’s a circular road, so you can’t get lost. Wait under the roof of the gatehouse. I’ll be there with my blue van in about thirty minutes. Oh, and bring your overnight clothes so you can stay overnight with us. You can eat your meals with us, of course. I will take you shopping in the morning for whatever you need. Did you understand all that?

Yes, I think so. Ani was not sure if she’d just heard an invitation or a command. In either case, she felt too hungry to refuse. Would this be one of those kind but religious Americans a friend had warned her about? And what would her father and uncle think if they knew she depended on an American instead of herself? The growl in her stomach loudly admonished her not to care about either question.

Chapter 2

About ten miles east of Newton University, twenty-eight-year-old Tom Hanson’s portable phone rang. It was lying on the glass coffee table in front of him, but he decided to let the machine answer. Today was his lazy day—a Sunday, and someone else in his computer repair business was on call. Besides, he was busy rolling up his socks while watching a baseball game on television.

A melodious female voice piped through the answering machine. It was from pretty, pliable, plastic Dora. Listen, sweetie, it said, I gotta cancel our date tonight. I just don’t feel good. Can we have a rain check? But I want you to know that I’d still like to see you another time. When would . . .

Tom sighed in relief and turned off the volume to the rest of her message. He leaned back and placed his bare feet on the coffee table. The Baltimore Orioles were up at bat in the top half of the third inning, and so far, neither team had scored. Their batter hit a ground ball, ran to first base, and kept running to second. The outfielder threw the ball to the second baseman, who caught it and tagged the batter two seconds before he could touch the base. The score was still 0-0. Just like my love life, Tom mused with a sigh.

He turned on the answering machine volume and listened to the whole message. As usual, Dora had nothing significant to say. She only made him look good in public. She was shapely. Her green eyes pierced like a cat’s under her perfectly lined eyebrows and wavy auburn hair. But he certainly could not imagine spending the rest of his life with her. She seemed to have no other interests besides getting pampered by his attention, and for him, the sum of his expenditures on their dates far outweighed any pleasure gained.

As Tom rolled the last clean pair of socks and stuffed them into a drawer, he suddenly felt tired. Very, very tired. Up until now, a string of light-hearted, bubbly women who liked to snuggle up to him like purring kitty cats had kept him feeling wanted, but never satisfied. Now at age 28, he had simply had enough of temporary parking places.

And there was his mother. She would pester him with questions about every girlfriend he ever had, not hiding her wish that he would marry soon and provide her with grandchildren. He wondered how long he could go on disappointing her.

But disappointing his mother was nothing compared to an underlying question that had plagued him ever since his puberty days: Would he ever be or feel worthy of someone he truly loved and admired? His self-worth, he thought, had to be measured by dollars and cents. Without enough dough to your name, his father had said many times, you’ll be worth nothing to a woman. So if his father was right, rich meant valuable, and valuable meant rich.

So Tom felt he was neither.

As a successful contract computer technician for a small firm in the greater Baltimore area, Tom Hanson enjoyed a decent salary. However, he was still paying off a considerable college loan debt every month. His brand-new velvet-red Mustang, which he bought on credit, cost him $500 per month alone. That did not cover gasoline and routine care. He used one of his credit cards to purchase a top-of-the-line personal computer, another card for a brand-new leather sofa ensemble, an Indian wool rug, a brass-and-glass-top coffee table, and, of course, a fancy headboard to go with his queen-size bed. These things, plus the expensive dinners out on his hot dates, maxed out the first two cards in no time. And, because he could not pay off his credit cards every month, the interest charges kept climbing. Hence, more debts. A total trap.

He would have to try to find a way to make more money and then some. But it would have to be by honest, whistle-clean means, he vowed to himself. His grandfather had taught him that much.

Tom combed his hair with his fingers and looked at his watch. He had a tennis appointment at the indoor club tennis hall in forty minutes. But first things first. He would shop for a sandwich at the supermarket. Hobbling to the bedroom with his tennis shoes half on, he fetched his wallet and checked to see if he had any cash. There was none. But a credit card was in it, and that would do.

A roar from the television filled the room. The New York Mets scored two more runs in the second half of the ninth inning and won. Dora is finished, the game is finished, but I’m not, Tom said aloud to himself. Fortune and wife, here I come! Time to make a home run—somehow, somewhere. His self-worth depended on it. Or so he thought.

Chapter 3

Ani did not have to wait long at the campus gate. The fairy godmother did appear—not in a carriage, of course, but in a large, royal-blue Ford van. A window electronically lowered. A red-haired woman with large, dangling blue earrings leaned out the open window. Her broad, toothy smile between thick red lips instantly set Ani at ease.

You must be Annie, right? Or do you pronounce your name Ah-nee like in honey? she asked with a warm, musical voice.

Ah-nee is correct, answered Ani with a smile. She stepped toward the car. Are you Mrs. Out—no, Osterhouse?

I sure am! the driver answered with a huge smile. You can call me Grace. Several lines across her neck, forehead, and chin betrayed Grace’s age to be around 60, Ani guessed. But what followed did not. As the car door opened, a tennis shoe, a white sock, a bare shin bone and knee, and a flabby, cellulite thigh in yellow shorts emerged. Then another of the same. Maybe she’s younger after all, Ani thought.

The woman climbed out of the van and swung open her arms. Welcome to America! she cheered with a broad smile framed in bright red lipstick. She wrapped her arms around Ani’s small frame so that Ani lost her breath for a few seconds. And when she did breathe, she smelled a strong perfume.

Ani was used to neither a hug nor the scent of perfume, but she rather liked both. I hope I don’t bother you, she said. Do you have time to help me?

Grace laughed. "I’ve made time, honey, don’t you see?"

In my world, time is instant and infinite, Ani mused; but here, they have to make it! You are very kind. How can I repay you? she asked politely.

No need to repay me, honey. I’m the one who owes a debt.

I don’t understand.

Never mind that now. I’ll explain another time.

Soon the Ford brought them into Grace’s neighborhood. Huge front yards with continuing carpet-like green grass (except for a walkway in front of each entrance), a tree now and then, and budding chrysanthemums framed the long rows of two-story redbrick homes. The colors of the window shutters varied from house to house.

Watch for the sprinkler. It should go off any second, warned Grace as they walked up the narrow path to the house. We usually park in the back in the garage, but I like to bring my new guests to the front of the house.

A brown beagle barked at the door as they entered. Unaccustomed to pet dogs in the house, Ani cringed and stepped back.

Don’t worry, she won’t bite, said Grace. Just gently hold out your palm under her chin. When she wags her tail, it says she trusts you. Her name is Oriole, and she loves ladies!

Leading the way into the foyer, Grace announced melodically, Fred dear, where are you? We have a guest! They came into a large room with bookshelves, a sofa, a comfortable chair, and a television. That’s my husband in that chair over there, watching a baseball game, she said. She bent over him, blocking his view of the TV. Fred! Ani is here. Can you say hello?

A gray-haired, middle-aged man swiveled his chair around and quickly got up. About half a meter taller than Grace, he walked toward Ani and extended his arms. Welcome to our home. I’m Fred. And you are again—?

Ani, she answered, stretching out her right hand quickly and letting him shake it, hoping he would not hug her as Grace had done.

Fred did not hug her, but he did manage to touch her shoulder with the other hand. Pleased to meet you, Ani, and welcome to our home, Fred said warmly, turned around again, and sat down in front of his game.

Grace led Ani toward a counter and three bar stools dividing the family room from the kitchen. Grace pulled out a bar stool for Ani. Won’t you have a seat? Sorry, it’s a bit cluttered in this house. Ani looked around, not sure what she meant by the word cluttered. A lot of furniture, yes. A stack of newspapers and magazines in one corner, plants in every other, a cream sofa with a few magazines on top, two matching recliners, a desk filled with papers, and a dining table with six chairs extending out from the other side of the kitchen counter. She had never seen a house so full of things one could do without!

How long has it been since you’ve eaten? asked Grace.

I ate two meals on the plane from Jakarta, but I slept on the way from California.

Oh dear! You must be starving! Grace took out several rolls from the refrigerator, warmed them in the microwave oven, and poured tea into a tall glass with ice. You can add sugar, if you like. And please help yourself to some grapes and apples, she added, pointing toward a bowl of fruit on the counter. She took a bowl out of the refrigerator and placed it into the microwave. Have you had lasagna before, Ani?

I don’t think so. Does it have pig meat? she asked cautiously.

No. I made it with beef and cheese. You are Muslim, I presume?

Ani nodded. She did not understand the word beef but she was too hungry to ask.

Sorry, I do not have halal meat today. Is that okay? Grace asked.

You know about halal? Ani asked in surprise.

Grace nodded. I’ve had many Muslim students in my home. So, do you eat only halal?

Ani hesitated. At home I do. But I can also eat Kosher meats. If neither is available, I can eat any other meat, except pig meat.

Grace placed the warmed-up rolls onto a plate and offered them to Ani. By the way, she said with a twinkle, when we talk about pig meat, we say pork. Hope you don’t mind me correcting your English.

Oh, no, always correct me, please! What do you say for cow meat?

Beef.

And chicken?

Just chicken, Grace answered, chuckling. English is crazy, isn’t it?

The next morning, Grace drove Ani to a vast parking lot twice the size of the huge outdoor market in Bandung. Then they walked into a supermarket that was at least a hundred meters long and wide and offered everything under the sun. All the items were wrapped and packaged neatly, with price tags already printed. The best part about the supermarket? It was indoors with air-conditioning, and there were no flies to shoo away!

Let’s see, Grace said as Ani pushed the grocery cart behind her. Ah! Here’s the halal meat section. Let’s see if they have some kosher or halal meat for hamburgers. Have you had hamburgers before, Ani?

No. Muslims do not eat ham, Ani answered.

No worries. In America, we make hamburgers from chopped beefsteak. Probably named after Hamburg, the city in Germany.

Oh, I see, laughed Ani. She had seen an American fast-food chain in Bandung but never eaten there.

Ani, do you need anything here? Grace asked as they passed a long row of shelving.

I think I need soup.

You mean soup or soap?

Ah, yes. Soap, Ani said, giggling.

For the body or the face?

For washing clothes.

Oh, sorry. You’ll find that in aisle four.

Two long aisles later, Grace’s plump arm pointed to the large boxes of detergent, some of which were as large as Ani’s night table back home.

Which one should I buy? Ani asked.

Compare what it says with the volume and the price. And look, some are for colored laundry, some are for white laundry. Do you want to wash your clothes by hand, or do you want to use a machine?

By hand.

Here, this should do. Grace picked out a generic liquid detergent. Just use a teaspoon in the sink, she advised. It’s very concentrated.

A short, blond young man with Asian features helped bag the groceries. You are beautiful! he chimed with a broad smile as he looked at Ani. She blushed, never having had such brash attention from a male before. When she noticed the young man’s combination of slanted eyes, pudgy face, and down-sloped shoulders—marks of Down syndrome—she relaxed. Thank you, she said, smiling back at him as she started pushing the shopping cart away.

Watch out, Ani! cried Grace. That’s the entrance, not the exit!

Ani tried to veer her cart toward the other doors—but too late. The entrance sliding glass doors opened, and—wham!—her wagon banged into something semi-hard.

Ouch! cried a man’s baritone voice.

Ani saw that her grocery cart had hit a pair of hairy legs in white tennis shorts, white socks, and white tennis shoes. When she looked up, she saw that the hairy legs belonged to a handsome blue-eyed, sandy-haired hidung mancung (literally translated as sharp nose or Caucasian). Oh! So sorry! she exclaimed, nervously jerking the cart to the side. Did I hurt you?

Yeah, you sure did! she heard him say as she watched him bend down and stroke his leg. When he straightened and looked up at her, she saw his grimace soften and break into a kind, warm smile. But I think I’ll live, he said with a twinkle, not at all with the lust-filled eyes of some Sunda men she had known.

Grace came around from the other door and tapped the man on the shoulder. Well, hello, Tom. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you!

He turned around. Oh, hi, Grace! Is this beautiful rookie grocery cart driver a friend of yours, by any chance?

Grace nodded.

Aren’t you going to introduce her to me?

We’re blocking everybody. Let’s move over first, shall we? suggested Grace. She helped Ani push the cart toward the exit door. "There, now, that’s better. Ani, this is Tom. Tom, this is Ani. She just arrived